


Endgame: Grima

by Bronstiel



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Endgame: Grima, Game Chapter in Writing, Grimleal - Freeform, In Media Res, Major Injury, Multi, Risen, Romance, War, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 13:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12842280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bronstiel/pseuds/Bronstiel
Summary: “The final battle looms, as does a choice: return Grima to his slumber with Chrom's sword or slay the dragon in exchange for the Avatar's life.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this on- and- off since about 2015, and I'm not sure if it will get finished. I am proud of what I have written so far though, so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Any questions, my tumblr is: curmit.tumblr.com/

Panne rumbled deep in her chest. On all fours, she still came up to Gaius’ shoulder, which is why he didn’t need to look far to see her eyes. His lopsided grin, the ever-present lollipop stick clenched between his teeth, were familiar enough to send a sliver of comfort through the worry that was tight in her chest.

“Ready, honey?” He called over the wailing wind. The rough surface they were standing on shifted- just another reminder to Panne that they were standing on a living creature. The wind roared past them, but there was also another sound that Panne was worried only she and her son could hear- the booming, arrythmic thumping of a giant heart. On the wind was the smell of ozone and fire, making Panne want to recoil from the very air itself, but buried beneath the acridity was another scent- of something ancient and powerful and  _ reptile _ .

“Didn’t I tell you about the names, Gaius?” Panne answered, her voice warped and distorted due to the effects of her Beaststone. Gaius opened his mouth to reply, but the amusement that seemed to be permanently set onto his face died as an almost supernatural screech tore through the air, and Panne saw their allies, the people she had grown to call  _ friends _ over the past years, reach up to cover their ears. As it was, she had no hands to block the sound out with, and so she flattened her own ears back against her skull, trying anything to quell the noise. She saw Yarne do the same where he was crouched in the crowd a little ways away, but before she could see much else, Gaius was before her.

“Panne, Panne, are you okay?” He asked, concern, which was not an emotion she had seen often on her husband’s face, clouding his features. She shook her head, not in answer to his question, but to try and rid herself of the ringing that was trilling through her auditory canal.

“Yes, I am fine,” She told him, and he grinned at her, reaching a hand out to gently smooth some of the wild hair on her forehead.

“I think that was the green light.” He took a deep breath and looked to the front of the crowd, where  _ she _ stood. Panne’s heart swelled, both for their brave leader and because she saw unease and fear behind Gaius’ calm exterior. She watched as he drew his sword.

“Did you talk to Yarne before the battle?” She asked him. She suddenly felt a great need to hear the answer before they began. She couldn’t bear it if he replied ‘no’. They both knew what could happen to them, any of them, in this final attack, and though she and Yarne had spoken, what if he hadn’t spoken to his father? Her son was too far away now to even smell, let alone speak to. Her son. Their son. The last of her race, and the first of a new one.

“I did,” Gaius hooked his silver bow across his shoulders, and Panne felt her heart unclench a little. She almost laughed. It was odd that relief was an emotion she was feeling on this precipice.

“So… Partners?” Gaius asked, looking at her with one eyebrow raised. She remembered back to when they first met, in the Ylissean castle, glass shattered around her bare feet, a cut bleeding from her brow, still in humanoid form, ready to repay her final debt to the Exalt and then return to her lonesome but  _ safe _ existence. And then Chrom had befriended this man, this  _ enemy _ , and Robin had directed him to her side. He had given her the same audacious, cocksure look and said in the same smooth tone, “ _ Partners? _ ” and she hadn’t understood why her fur had been jumping with nerves, with  _ anticipation _ .

“Always,” She answered him, looking him right in his eyes and wanting nothing more than this man, this thief, to be by her side for as long as she lived.

“Sweet,” He replied, and turned to face the oncoming war.


	2. Chapter 2

They say the first death in battle is always the hardest.

The first death was always significant, though one never always knew who it was. Laurent was sure of this fact, but more often than not the first death was lost to the roar of the fight, and no one knew in the end which of the bodies they had collected was the first to perish at the hands of the enemy.

Laurent knew this battle was important. This was  _ the _ battle. They had practiced, they had fought, they had sacrificed and they had  _ loved _ all up until this moment, this moment where it was all spiralling down to the ultimate choice of victory or defeat. This battle was the most important thing in Laurent’s life. And, so far, they were pressing forward with an apt procession.

He was fighting well. Yarne and Nah were on his left, and Owain was on his right, talons, claws, and swords clacking and colliding with the enemies own weapons. All people he knew, all from his childhood, all his friends.

His fingers tingled with tiny shocks and he shouted the ageless words he’d memorised from the thin pages of  _ Thoron _ . He knew his hand would be numb from pins and needles when the battle was over. He didn’t know why he was carrying the tome, but there was something about having the tangible source of magic in his hands that gave him more confidence to fight.

He heard Nah cry out from above, seeing the mighty dragon roar with an arrow in its shoulder only to change mid-cry into a frail girl, the deep bellow changing to a high-pitched shriek as she dropped her dragonstone and began to plummet to the ground. She fell headfirst from the air she had just been occupying, wings disappearing the instant the stone tumbled from her fingers, just a small dark-haired girl instead of the terrifying dragon she had been mere seconds ago. He stepped forward to try to somehow slow her descent, but he was too far away and was immediately blocked by a Grimleal, whose own blood was pouring from a wound on its thigh, though still it staggered forward.

“Owain!” Laurent turned back to the boy on his left, just in time to see him cut neatly through another Grimleal’s armour, drawing his sword back in a flourish and a triumphant grin.

“Yeah, my comrade?” The freckled youth turned to him and Laurent saw the fear underlying the smile that was quickly fading from his features. Laurent had to delay his reply to dispatch the Grimleal advancing on him, and was panting when he turned back to the younger soldier.

Laurent had never had much to do with Owain. Even back when Laurent was the same age as Lucina and Gerome and the others, before he had become stuck in the past, Owain had been the youngest of the group, the baby. Whilst he himself had played with Lucina and Gerome and Kjelle and Severa, games of learning and skill-harnessing whilst their parents watched proudly, Owain had fooled around with Cynthia and Inigo and Morgan, their delighted screaming and scuffling causing their parents to change their attention from the quiet game of weapon practice, to watch the  _ Justice Allegiance  _ with smiles and laughter. Even stern Miriel had enjoyed the show.

Even as they had grown up past petty games, Laurent and Owain had rarely associated, and when they had, Laurent had always held a sense of disdain and scorn towards the young boy. That had carried on even as the war truly began, as Morgan disappeared into the deep night, as their parents left and never came home. There was mutual respect, of course, as both Laurent and Owain had been some of the first volunteers for Lucina when she needed them, and they could each see that the other was strong. But Laurent felt that Owain just wasn't mature enough to be fighting this war, and not mature enough at all to have the amount of respect most of the army gave him. They had no mutual interests, and, to Laurent, Owain’s little imaginary games had seemed childish and immature.

“Nah has been injured,” Laurent had to explain this quickly, and put aside all his doubts as to whether the younger soldier could do the task. As far as he knew, no one had died in this battle yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. He tapped the butt of his staff gently against the shuddering ground and gestured in the direction of their injured comrade. “Can you cover me while I heal her?”

“Nah?” Owain’s soft features turned pinched with concern as he searched for the fallen girl, and Laurent looked too, and saw that Yarne had laid her behind him and was fighting harder, but with more panic evident even in his beast’s actions. “Of course!” Owain answered him, stepping closer to him so Laurent saw the shallow cut down one arm, and the dampening patch of blood on Owain’s slacks covering his thigh. But they were minor injuries, that would maybe impair Owain’s movements but a fraction. Nah was the one he needed to heal. Owain could wait.

“Hop to it, blondie!” Owain was already ahead of him, forcing the Grimleal back with his impressive sword skills. “ _ Radiant Daaaaaaawn _ !” Owain cried, his slight limp impairing him almost unnoticeably. Laurent followed, casting spells where it was necessary, and they did make it to Nah in little to no time.

“Laurent,” She gasped, sweat glimmering on her elfin face, her dark hair curling at her temples, seeming to make her face even smaller, making her look even younger. Laurent heard Yarne and Owain cry greetings to each other as he studied her, frowning. He wasn’t the best with healing, but he was the closest Sage and his skills would do the job. “Your hat…” Nah trailed off in a grimace of pain, clutching her shoulder where the arrow had pierced it.

“Yes, it was blown off in the wind almost as soon as we arrived.” Laurent followed her train of thought, trying to get her attention away from the pain. He caught her eyes with his, keeping her attention on him and off of the pain, studying the slightly slitted pupils. “I suppose I must look different without it.”

“You…” Nah trailed off as he started to heal her, her eyes fluttering shut as his staff’s powers started working slowly. He regretted not practicing this skill more, and gritted his teeth and frowned, concentrating. He reached his free hand out and wiped her sweaty hair off her forehead before holding her ribs, where the arrow had wounded her. He felt the leeching feeling of Mend drain through his palm where it rested above her torso, a bruising pain rooting itself in his hand and drawing across his body to his staff. 

“I, what, Nah?” He nudged her with his knee, feeling the soft power of healing caress her ribs through his palm.

“Your face,” She opened her eyes, and Laurent was relieved that they were clearer, the pain dimming from her face. “You look younger without the hat.”

And Laurent smiled, relief showing in his features just for a moment. Nah smiled back, picking up her Dragonstone and getting her feet under her as Laurent helped her to stand.

“Thanks,” She said to him, sincerity evident in her high voice, keeping hold of his hand for a moment and squeezing it with both of her own.

“Think nothing of it.” He turned back to the fight now, almost disappointed to return to the field. But no one had died yet, and he had helped that statistic, and he needed to continue to make sure no one did.

“Owain!” He called, and looked for the boy. Yarne was still nearby, now reunited with Nah, already back to facing the Grimleal together. Laurent felt a bite of panic before he spotted the flash of yellow and the cry of “Begone, fiend!” from the fray, and so he advanced into the swell of bodies, swapping his  _ Thoron  _ for a  _ Rexcalibur _ and blasting the Grimleal from his path.

“Owain!” Laurent said again once he had found the soldier. Owain looked at him just as he was pulling his sword from another victim, and grinned.

“Did you heal her, Laurent?” He asked, his big blue eyes darting around for more enemies.

“Yes,” Laurent was frustrated. “You should not have wandered off.” It was critical everyone remained in their teams, as to best maximise success. It was the reason Robin had paired everyone up, after all.

“Yeah, I know, it might not have been the brightest idea.” Owain agreed too quickly for Laurent’s liking, and his frustrations with the boy ran deeper. How was this  _ child _ a master swordsman when he couldn’t even follow a few simple orders?

“Are you injured?” Laurent asked suspiciously. He knew of the shallow cuts he had seen before, but they probably weren't worth Owain shoving his pride to the side.

“My leg’s killing me, actually,” Owain admitted, gesturing to the blood soaking his pants that Laurent had noticed earlier. Apparently he had been wrong in assuming that it had been a minor wound. The patch of blood had widened considerably since he had last seen it, but Laurent felt that there would be no harm in teaching Owain one last lesson.

“Let us return to our original post, and then I shall heal you.” Laurent told him, and Owain’s face fell.

“Can’t you heal me here?” He asked, testing his weight on his leg and limping a step. But Laurent would not be swayed. Owain needed to be taught not to enter the fray alone, not to disobey Robin's orders, not to deviate from her plan.

“I shall do it when we return to our post. Have no fear, Owain, we are stronger as a pair.” Laurent hoped Owain understood his teaching, and nodded as the dark-haired boy agreed, taking a deep breath as they turned back to the battle.

"I'll just walk it off then," he heard Owain grumble. Laurent had to force himself not to roll his eyes. He was above that. Unlike his partner.

They were indeed stronger as a pair. Owain fought the melee attacks that came too close, and Laurent took care of the archers that aimed at them as well as a few other Sages. On they fought, and Laurent saw that he had underestimated the distance back to their post. It must have seemed a shorter distance in their rush to get to Nah, the time melting away as they had both rushed to help their friend. But he did not suggest healing Owain early. He would wait, and Owain would learn, and Laurent’s pride would remain intact. No one had died yet, and Laurent had stopped a potential first death. He was the leader right now.

Every time he had checked back, Owain had always been limping, keeping the weight off his injured leg. But as soon as he had seen that Laurent was looking, Owain's leg would straighten out and he would frown, his Chon'sin features bearing more prominent in his boyish face as he roared and twirled around his opponent in his father's fighting style. Laurent would assist in grudging respect, always reminded of Owain's father and the knowledge of where Owain learnt all of his skills. But there was always a falter in Owain's step, not dodging as fast as usual, or attacking too quickly and missing an opening. Laurent brushed it off as battle nerves and pressed forward. He hadn't checked back in a while, trusting Owain to cover them, and also not wanting to test his nerves that were already strung thin just listening to Owain all but sing battle cries behind him.

They were almost there, Laurent in the lead, Owain covering behind.  _ Rexcalibur _ was burning out in his hands, Laurent could feel it, but still he clutched it tightly, feeling more and more irritated with Owain. What Robin had been thinking when she had paired the two of them together, he did not know.

“A hero is never idle!” Owain bellowed, and Laurent was almost ready to turn around and tell him off, but he knew better. He would remain calm and remain focused on battle, but he would have to stay facing forward, otherwise he may snap at the youth beside him.

“Ha!” He heard, and he rolled his eyes. He readied his stave, though, as they were just arriving in their position. “I am invici-” The triumphant cry from beside him was cut off in a rather abrupt gasp, like Owain had swallowed water the wrong way, choked on the liquid. Laurent spun quickly, and his his heart leapt to his throat as his blood ran cold.

“I…” Owain met Laurent's eyes with a confused expression on his face, almost as if he could not comprehend the lance protruding from his chest, blood bubbling from the wound, staining his cheerful-coloured clothes. He was on one knee, the lance ironically seeming to be the thing supporting his torso up and stopping him from falling to the ground completely. Laurent’s heart stopped as he realised that Owain’s injured leg must have given out underneath him, and given the Grimleal the opening it needed.

“I…” Owain coughed, a small sound, and a tiny trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Their eyes were still locked, and Laurent watched as fear flooded into the bright blue irises that were locked with his own.

“No.” Laurent stated as he watched, dumbstruck, and the Grimleal still holding the lance turned to him and grinned, twisting the end he was holding. Their staring finally broke as Owain screwed his eyes up and began to cry out in pain. “ _ NO _ !” Laurent flung a hand out and the cultist was blasted away by  _ Rexcalibur _ , the tome crumbling to dust in his hands as he dove to Owain’s side, in his panic tearing out the lance as the boy collapsed onto his back on the hard scales of the Fell Dragon.

But the damage was done.

The wound was massive, the lance had punctured all the way through Owain, one side to the other. One look at the lesion on the dark haired youth's chest and Laurent knew that not even Lissa, the best healer they had, could help.

Lissa, who was Owain’s  _ mother _ .

“Ugh,” Owain grunted as he slid further onto his back to the ground. Laurent didn’t know what to do. Did he hold him or call for help? Could someone help? He looked around but all he could see were a mass of bodies and animals and then nothing because his eyes were blurring with tears behind his spectacles.

Owain coughed, bringing Laurent’s attention back to the fallen warrior, and he decided to offer what little comfort he could. “Owain,” His hands shook as he looked for a place to put them. His father always said physical comfort could do wonders for the soul. He eventually decided on Owain’s shoulder.

“Laurent,” Owain’s voice was thick with grief and tears and that made it so much worse for Laurent, because it meant Owain knew what was happening, knew there was no hope. He also knew that Owain would prefer pretty much anyone else in the entire army to die in the hands of but, instead of his childhood friend Morgan or Cynthia or even Yarne, he got him. Tall, lanky, awkward Laurent, who had dismissed this boy’s existence up until the day they were paired up for this battle together. Laurent, who had caused this boy’s death in lieu of teaching him a lesson.

“Laurent,” Owain said again, clutching at the front of his yellow coat, hands getting coated in blood, the red covering the freckles that dusted his knuckles. His hands were long-fingered and pale, typical of the people of Chon'sin, but his blue eyes and the myriad of freckles dusting his face and arms showed his Ylissean heritage. Of course, there was the Brand of the Exalt on his forearm, and Laurent choked on his own phlegm as he fully realised that he had caused the death of a member of the royal family.

“Yes, Owain, yes,” Laurent didn’t know what he was agreeing to, but he didn’t know what else to say.  _ Yes, I'm here, _ was comforting- his own father had used that many times in his childhood after his mother had disappeared, every time Laurent had woken with night terrors and gasped with tears to check if his father was still with him.  _ Yes I'm here, Laurent, I'm here.  _ Libra had soothed him. It was always  _ I'm here _ right up until the day he wasn't.

Laurent hadn't seen the baby that had been born shortly after Lucina, but he knew that the Laurent of this timeline was already sitting on his own, his fair hair falling in his eyes, adored by his mother and praised by his father. That Laurent was right now in Ylisstol, probably asleep in the nursery, cared for by plenty, waiting for his parents to get home. He had a bright future ahead of them if they could do this. Laurent hoped so. Laurent never wanted that baby, his parents of this time’s pride and joy, to go through what he had. He never wanted that baby to go through this.

“Laurent,” Owain’s voice was rough with tears and pain. “Forgive me… I couldn’t keep Ylisse… Safe…”

“What?” Laurent watched as the light in Owain’s eyes slowly flickered, and the hands that had been twisting knots in the yellow coat slowly stopped moving. “N-No!” Laurent grabbed Owain’s chin and jerked his face around to stare at his lifeless eyes. “No, Owain, don’t think that!”

But it was no use. The hands were limp, the eyes hollow, no flush present in the boy’s cheeks. Owain was dead, and had died thinking he failed Ylisse, his parents, and Laurent.

They say the first death in battle is always the hardest.


	3. Chapter 3

“We are having fun, yes?” Gregor grinned as his axe cut cleanly through a Grimleal’s neck. Olivia was next to him, her pale hair glimmering in the setting sun as she spun and twisted, even her attacks looking like graceful dance moves.

“Have you seen Inigo?" Olivia turned to him with a face pinched with worry as they pressed forward, the army advancing slowly but surely. “Gregor, I worry-”

“Inigo?” Gregor raised his axe high in the air so an arrow just shot from a Plegian enemy was knocked off course and made redundant as it spun harmlessly into the crowd. “Gregor is sure Inigo is fine. His boy is very talented.”

“But-” Olivia brought a hand up to her chin, pressing her fingers to her mouth, a telltale sign she was fiercely worried.

“Olivia,” Gregor sang over the clash of metal and cries of the falling enemy. “Light of Gregor’s life,” He blocked a swipe of an enemy’s lance as it headed for Olivia. “-Centre of stage,” Olivia ducked under the arm Gregor was using to hold off the offender’s lance and ran him through the chest with her silver sword. “Mother of Gregor’s incredibly capable child that has technically only just being born,” He helped her up as she drew her sword out of the Plegian. “You worry too much.” He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling, crow’s feet marking the corners, until she smiled back. “Inigo will be fine,”

She sighed, huffing the hair out of her eyes, eyebrows still pinched in worry. Gregor carefully wiped some blood off her cheek, being careful not to smear it too much, and she caught his hand and pressed it to her mouth.

“You know I can’t help but fret, love,” She said, and kissed his palm before letting his hand fall.

“Yes, Gregor knows.” He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before turning back to the battle and pressing forward, holding Olivia by the arm so her small frame would not be lost to the swell of bodies. He knows, of course, because now they had two Inigos to fight for, two sons to save the world for. Their baby had been born only a few short months ago, and Gregor knew it killed Olivia to be away from their small laughing son. He knew, because it killed him too. “And Gregor-”

“Oh, love, Robin is calling us!” Olivia interrupted him, something she never did to anyone unless it was completely necessary, and Gregor’s head snapped up to see their tactician gesturing to them through a break in the crowd.

“Then we must go!” He slid his hold down her arm to her hand and gripped it tightly and then dashed through the crowd to try and get nearer to Robin to hear her commands. Robin met them part way, Frederick and Morgan at her side.

“Olivia, I need you to go to Maribelle and Ricken and make sure they get as many attacks in as they can, if that’s okay?” She brushed her hair back, the sweat on her brow sticking some strands to her forehead. “And Gregor, protect her while she helps them out. But I hardly need to tell you that, do I?” A rare smile graced Robin’s features. When Gregor had first met her, she had never seemed to stop smiling. But as the war advanced, Robin’s smiles had grown less and less, until they had been few and far between. This was the first time Gregor had seen her look even remotely happy for days.

“Of course,” Gregor agreed. Robin turned back around and went to leave, pausing for a moment to look at them over her shoulder.

“Be careful you two,” She nodded, and then headed back off through the melee, her husband at her side.

“Hear that?” Olivia pressed her long fingers into the crook of Gregor’s elbow. “Be careful.”

“Gregor does not need twice the telling!” Gregor hurrahed as he ploughed a way through the crowd. Olivia dutifully kept pace, eyes darting around for a glimpse of Inigo or Minerva, knowing there was a fifty per cent chance that it was Gerome’s Minerva and, if Germone was there, Inigo would not be far off. Gregor knew that the Inigo of their time, right now probably asleep in the nursery in Ylisstol, would be good friends with Gerome too. They were sharing a room in the nursery, and the only thing Gregor would change about his son’s relationship was that it wouldn't be shaped by fear and heartache and hard times.

“There is the little man!” Gregor shouted as they reached Ricken and Maribelle, gripping the sage’s shoulder for a moment before turning to help. Ricken beamed at the older man as Olivia and Maribelle exchanged quieter but no less heartfelt greetings.

They ran out of time for words after that, the weight of the battle pressing in at them. Somehow, they were making it- a sword would dance across skin, an arrow nicking through gaps in armour, but no serious injuries. Ricken and Maribelle were both using their staves to med others around them, and with Olivia’s motivation, they were efficient and thorough. As well as cutting a swift path through the Grimleal who dare thought the fresh-faced soldiers were easy targets.

“Be careful, my darling!” Olivia cried out as Gregor narrowly avoided a spear thrown at him by a hulking general. He threw a grin over his shoulder at her before using his axe to slice through the thin gaps in the thick armour of his enemy. He turned back to his wife and watched as she pressed her fingers to her mouth, her pale hair sticking to her forehead with sweat as she gazed at him.

His wife, his beautiful wife, was not built for war. She was too beautiful, too fragile, too loving, and Gregor knew from experience that war destroyed all those things. But his wife was also resilient. She had lasted this long and war had not broken her yet. And Gregor would die before this one broke her. He remembered her body swollen with child, her beaming always and saying this was the first time in her life she was happy with the circumstances that restricted her from dancing. Not even childbirth had broken her. His wife was  _ resilient _ .

He beamed at her, and watched as she almost laughed at him, a tear sliding from one of her eyes. He watched her as she took her hand away from her mouth and moved towards him, stepping daintily and as gracefully across the back of the Fell Dragon as if it was a hardwood floor of the stage she would dance upon every day. He watched her as she hefted the sword in her hand, adjusting her grip upon the bloodstained weapon, her muscles flexing in that one moment, reminding him his wife wasn’t weak, she was a strong a warrior as he was.

“Gregor-” He stepped towards her too, eyes softening.

“I know,” She wiped her free hand across her eyes. “Gregor is always careful.”

They had had too many quiet moments. Gregor had thought it was luck- Olivia was always lucky. But now he saw that Fate or Destiny or just the Grimleal had been testing them, and they had failed. Or, maybe, it was just one of those moments in war where the enemy just slipped through.

“Olivia-” Gregor’s eyes widened as he snapped an arm out, his wide palm clapping against her naked bicep with a sharp slap, fingers closing bruisingly hard as she yelped in surprise as much as at the sudden sting. There was no time for more words, only to yank her to the side as fast as he could. But as much as he wished it otherwise, Gregor was growing old. He was still strong and fast in a battle, could still read his enemy’s moves and intentions but maybe, when taken by surprise, his reflexes were not as fast as they once were.

He still saved her life though. Being pulled to the side stopped the axe cleaving through her neck to her chest, instead the sharp edge plunging down, missing her torso entirely. The Grimleal grunted with surprise, but the heavy weapon continued its descent and Olivia screamed as it cut choppily into the meat of her calf.

Gregor didn’t think. Using his hold on Olivia, he yanked her again, towards him this time, and she howled in pain as he forced her to stumble forward, the axe still embedded in her leg. The Grimleal gripping the weapon stumbled forward too, and Gregor snarled, raising a foot and slamming the sole of his heavy boot into it’s head, knocking off it’s hold on the axe and forcing it to collapse to the floor. Raising his own axe, he bellowed as he plunged the sharp edge into the Grimleal again and again- every time he raised the weapon, blood flew from the edge of the blade, and soon he felt it dripping down his face.

He only stopped when he heard someone sobbing his name, and he turned, his face still caught in a snarl, to see Olivia crouched and crying, saying his name between heaving gasps of air over and over and over.

There was so much blood. It was pooling from her leg- her leg, she would never dance again with that wound, even after healing- across the lumpy surface of the Dragon, reaching the toes of his boots. She had always been pale, skin as white as the Feroxi snow, but now even the colour that usually stained her cheeks had bled out. His heart was thundering, fear coursing through every point of his body, panic making his fingers twitch and his jaw tremble.

_ His wife was not built for war _ .

“Maribelle!” He bellowed, and he felt hot wetness trickling from his eyes as he reached his arms out for his wife. The last time he had cried was when Olivia had told him he was going to be a father. Before that, when his brother had died. “Maribelle, please!” Gregor was sobbing almost as much as his wife. “ _ Help _ !”


	4. Chapter 4

“I see you,” Cordelia murmured to her husband, kissing his cheek before leaning away as Kellam slid his helmet on. His heart warmed at the words, and he watched as she set her jaw, her long red hair wafting in the breeze as she gripped her lance, standing straight and ready. All the beasts had been left behind for this battle, deemed too nervous to be ridden on the Fell Dragon's back. Only Minerva (both of them) was brave enough to journey with her masters to the battle. Thus, Cordelia would fight on foot. She looked as pure and as dangerous as she always did, but there was little changes. Thicker thighs, belly still a little swollen, and he knew that she was quite happy her breasts hadn't reduced size after their recent childbirth, although you couldn't tell with her breastplate on.

It was always the same.  _ I see you, _ before they went to sleep at night.  _ I see you _ , before every battle.  _ I see you _ , at the dinner table when feeling a wash of affection. It was used as a greeting, as a goodbye, as an inside joke, as a sentiment of their love. To him, it was validation- that at least one person knew where he was, knew  _ who _ he was, and cared. To her, it was clarification- someone saw  _ her _ , not the prodigy or the survivor, but  _ her _ , and loved her completely.  _ I see you _ .

The Grimleal didn’t seem to be thinning, but despair couldn’t claw it’s way into Kellam’s heart. He was there, in the battle of their lives, beside a woman who loved him. His daughter-  _ he had a daughter _ \- was there, too, along with his closest friends. The Shepherds had grown into a family for him, as well as giving him an actual family. There was a fire in his chest that no amount of battles could take away.

It was that fire that drove him through the war.

It was in the midst of battle that Kellam truly appreciated his invisibility. He could roar as loud as he could and sometimes the Risen or Grimleal or mercenaries wouldn’t even notice him coming. In his gigantic armour, one would think he would be impossible to miss- it was even coloured a garish orange as if like a beacon. But it must have just been something about him, about the way he carried himself, his aura or presence. No one seemed to notice him. Only Stahl, Donnel, and Robin could really see him now- and they had been practicing. And, of course, Cordelia never missed him, and her arms draped across his chest, or her head leant against his shoulder, or her legs across his lap always alerted more people to his existence. It was like- he was nothing before Cordelia, a ghost until she had given him life. Robin would laugh at that analogy.

And, of course, there was Severa. Both of them. His baby girl, the newest edition born into the Shepherd family, was safe at home, being cared for in Ylisstol while her parents were away. His heart ached for his little baby, but he also had his other daughter. He hadn't been present on the Shepherds' mission when they had found her, but Cordelia had- she and Sumia were the ones to find her. Apparently Cordelia had spotted her first, and only after pointing her out to Sumia and, consequently, the rest of the company, they couldn't miss her.

And then when they had arrived back at camp, Severa had marched right up to Kellam and thrown her arms around him, much to his surprise. But his heart had swelled in size when he found out who she was. His own daughter could find him in a crowd as easily as a normal person. His daughter didn't lose him.  _ I see you _ .

"Better keep your guard up, Dad," Severa danced past him, as sure footed and as graceful as her mother ever was. Noire was beside her, head raised, pale hair falling about her face. She smiled awkwardly when Cordelia waved at her, and Severa rolled her eyes at her mother's niceness.

"They're really getting into it," Severa continued, walking away now in the opposite direction to her parents, twirling her sword in her hand.

"Be careful," Kellam heard himself calling, his voice echoing weirdly in his helmet as it always did when he spoke, and he saw Severa scoff, tossing her long hair over her shoulders.

"I love you!" Cordelia called out to her, and Severa rolled her eyes, a blush staining her cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, but Kellam saw her press her lips together, staring at the two of them before turning away and running off, Noire squeaking before scampering after her.

He smiled, and saw Cordelia had a fond look on her face too. "She's so great," he said, and Cordelia nodded in agreement. She reached a hand out to him and he took it, watching her gloved fingers flex around his but not feeling the squeeze because of his gauntlets.

They fought at the edge of the fray, as they were instructed to, and for that, Kellam was grateful to Robin. She had taken care of their flyers who no longer had their steeds, and even though Cordelia was as quick and as skilled on foot as she was on pegasi, Kellam was sure this was the better plan of action. They fought side-by-side with Sumia and Henry, the other Pegasus knight also grounded, but her prowess on the field as well as her determination keeping her usual clumsy nature from coming through.

“What a work out!” Cordelia was glowing, a smile impossibly tugging at her lips. She was in her element, twirling, dodging, slaying the evil that surrounded them. Kellam was not as confident, would never be as confident as his beautiful wife. But here she was, grinning as her face was splashed in blood, finally getting her revenge for her family, the Pegasus Knights, being slaughtered.

He did feel a pang of uneasiness that she was enjoying this so much, though. Forcing a little too much, chasing a little too much. Because as much as he tried to forget it, their opponents weren't Risen, they weren't just  _ things _ . They were fighting the Grimleal, soldiers of Grima,  _ people.  _ Just like they were.

But they were the disciples of Naga, a source of Divine Good. The Grimleal put their faith- in the literal sense- in the wrong Divine Source. It was a mix mash of choices and the Grimleal made the wrong ones.

But he couldn't stop the wince that pulled his mouth when Cordelia slashed a Grimleal Mage’s stomach in front of them, not because of the action, but because of the triumphant “ _ Ha _ !” that she trilled after as the Mage dropped to his knees and his intestines spilled over his fingers. Kellam followed after she had danced away, holding the mage’s head back and slitting his throat to end his suffering.

“Stay close,” he called after his wife, watching her leap over an enemy’s back before sticking her lance in their side. Kellam once again slit that enemy’s throat in an act of mercy as he followed Cordelia, his heavy armour not allowing him to quite keep up. “You know I'm too slow to keep up with you.”

“Psh,” Cordelia laughed at his warning as she twirled around a Grimleal’s strike, reaching a booted foot out to slam her sole into his solar plexus. She watched him drop and Kellam tried to get there faster, but he wasn't quick enough. Cordelia continued to kick the foe until she rolled him off the side of the Fell Dragon, and Kellam’s stomach grew queasy at his screams.

“ _ Cordelia _ !” Kellam was aghast. The wind was whistling through the gaps in his armour, the whining making his head hurt. He was feeling nauseous now, from the constant deaths and also from being up so high. The skies were Cordelia’s domain. Kellam was in his element on the ground.

His wife was still standing at the edge of the beast, her long hair swirling around her head like ribbons. At his reproachful tone, she looked over her shoulder in his direction. There was blood painting the side of her face and her neck, almost the exact shade of her beautiful hair, and her silver lance was coated and dripping from the point. She looked as imperfect and as deadly as Kellam had ever seen her, a wild energy crackling around her, a need for revenge rippling just under her skin. This was so unlike Cordelia, who was calm and collected and always knew reason was the best option. This was a completely new person, someone who took risks and fought on instinct instead of training. Kellam didn't know this person.

He went to speak again, try and make her a see reason, a little less violence, more humanity, but Kellam’s words died in his throat and his mouth went dry when her eyes just skated over him, missing him entirely, before she turned back to the fight. She paid no attention to him. It was as if he wasn't there at all.

_ I see you _ .

Kellam watched as Cordelia skipped into fray, skewering a warrior before using his body as a shield and striking the swordsman a moment later. He shook his head, telling himself that he needed to be next to her, whoever this woman was. He needed to protect her, understand her,  _ see  _ her, because it was the right thing to do. Even if she couldn't see him.

He wondered where any of the other Shepherds were. He hadn't seen Sumia or Henry or Robin for a while. The only sound was the wind whistling through the chinks in his armour, Cordelia’s delighted shrieks, and the roar of Grima. He was worried about his friends, but he would find them later. Once he had found his wife in this new warrior woman.

But even as he moved towards her, it looked like she didn't need his help. They were in the sky, they were in her element, and so Kellam watched as she fought and fought, blood soon coating her like paint. And she was a threat, too powerful, too quick, too perfect.

And so the Grimleal treated her like a threat, and Kellam could only watch as she was ganged up on, taken down, and disappeared in a sea of Grimleal. He was too slow, always too slow, and only cut his way through to her once she was bleeding out through a wound in her chest, the axe still embedded in her breastplate, and in her. He was too slow, too late to even be with his wife when she died. Her eyes were unseeing, blind to him as he stroked her face and tears fell from his eyes. The remaining Grimleal turned away, returning to the battle, not even noticing he was there.

His heart throbbed as he thought of their little daughter at home. She would never remember her mother now, only remember the legend who had died in battle. She would grow up with just him- a father who was an invisible knight, too awkward, too loyal, too slow. His heart was breaking and his sobs were echoing around his helmet in a way he hated. He hated himself, but he hated the Grimleal more.

Kellam finally understood his wife’s bloodlust, understood why she was so intent on killing them. But Kellam had something his wife didn't. One advantage over the hundreds she had over him.

And he was finally thankful the Grimleal couldn't see him coming.


	5. Chapter 5

Brady was laughing.

It was impossible, of course. He didn't know how the bubble of mirth had escaped his throat in these dark times, or how he was feeling so elated, but here he was, on the back of the Fell Dragon, back bowed with laughter.

And it was all because of her. Two skips ahead, Cynthia bounced over the scales of the God who had destroyed their world, and ducked under the dark shadows of  _ Mire _ as it descended where she had been standing just moments ago.

“Woah!” She put on a theatrical twirl as she grinned at Brady before popping up onto her tiptoes to try and spot the dark mage who cast the fearful spell.

“I spy…” Brady started for her, knocking the sharp edge of his Bolt Axe between the scales of the Dragon they were standing upon. If  _ he _ were Grima, he’d just barrel-roll over in the air and tip them all off. Wasn't that the logical thing? He'd tell Cynthia that when it was all over. He was rarely funny, especially these days, and he wanted her to know. But later. He didn't want to give the Dragon any ideas.

“With my li-i-i-tle eye…” Cynthia drawled, smirking back at him whilst her white hair curled around her temples. They were a year or two different in age, but that had never bothered Brady once he had gotten to know her. Whenever he thought about it, he was always a little bummed out he was never part of the ‘Justice Allegiance’, having spent most of his childhood either in the infirmary with Noire or under his mother’s strict tutelage. But then again, his mother would never have allowed such undignified playing from him when she was alive, so even if he had played with the other children, it would have been with Laurent and Lucina and the rest.  _ Studying _ .

He hoped the Brady of this time- born just over a month ago to a delighted Maribelle and Ricken and a crowd of judgemental onlookers- would have a less restricted childhood than he did. Maybe this Brady would be able to play with his friends, maybe Kjelle wouldn't make fun of his long nose quite as much and cause him to get even more nosebleeds, maybe he wouldn't cry as much. 

But what difference had it made? They had all ended up here, no matter what they had done. It didn't matter that it had been Inigo and Owain versus Gerome and Kjelle in the battle of the muddy creek when they were five. It hadn't mattered that Severa had been champion of hide and seek when they all played together when they were seven. It hadn't mattered that Morgan had been everyone’s closest friend, and also the one who had betrayed them all when they were twelve. And it hadn't mattered that, with everyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three, they had travelled back in time to stop Hell literally being raised. Grima had still gotten his Host, Emmeryn had still died, and doom was still upon the world.

“A dark mage!” Cynthia finished, jerking Brady out of his depressing thoughts as she pointed over the crowd. With the same hand she reached back and clasped his fingers in hers before dashing off between the people. To her credit, she only tripped twice, but she always had Brady to steady her.

Robin had assigned them to back off from the front lines and focus on getting the Mages coming from the right side of the Beast. Severa and Noire had gotten the same assignment to them, but to the left side of Grima, so occasionally they'd meet in the middle and Cynthia would blow them kisses and wave with her white pigtails, Noire smiling and catching the nonexistent gifts whilst Severa tried to hide her smiles.

“Ouch!” Cynthia grumbled as a blast from an  _ Arcthunder _ burned her thigh. Her bronze skin, the Plegian tone contrasting startlingly with her white hair, as it did with her father, making the burnt flesh look black.

“Here,” Brady stopped her from continuing her war path, knowing an injured leg would hinder her movement. He slung the staff of his axe through his belt and swapped it for his Mend, reaching for her and already feeling the hum of healing magic at his fingertips. He touched the burn and felt the heat prickle the pads of his fingers, juxtaposed to the cooling sensation flowing through his other hand that was wrapped around the shaft of Mend.

“Done,” he smiled at her and she grinned back, ruffling his red hair as her skin healed before her eyes.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” She laughed, turning her eyes back to the battlefield. Brady smiled too as he swapped his axe back out of his belt, but his heart twinged as he knew she only meant as a friend. Why, Cynthia told Gerome she loved him at least three times a day, so this was nothing significant. And her friendship was enough, it was enough that she just gave him her time.

They took out the Mage that had been casting Mire on the Shepherds and then started to focus on the sorcerer that had scorched Cynthia with that Arcthunder. Cynthia still clasped his hand tightly and was watching her feet and stumbling over the bumpy scales they walked on, using her grip on Brady to steady herself. Brady was keeping his head up and watching their backs.

After watching Nah high in the air spew fire in the distance towards the thick of the battle, Brady felt heat on his cheek. He turned, puzzled, thinking the sun was rising- but why was it that hot already, then?- only to see an enormous mass of fire barrelling towards them. “Here!” Brady moved quicker than he thought he could, holding his axe up and flat in front of them both and crouching, the wide blade blocking the blast of the Bolganone that had been aimed at them. Hot ash and debris from Gods know what showered over the blade, and he felt Cynthia’s hand squeeze his waist before she placed her foot on his bent knee and  _ jumped _ .

For once, it looked amazing. From the sea of heat and orange debris still swirling around them, Cynthia leapt through the fire. Straight out of the receding flames, she had her lance held tightly between both hands and she landed on top of the sorcerer who had cast the fire spell, her knees hitting his chest and taking him down. When she stood off him, she grinned back at Brady and gestured with her arms at the dead Mage with her lance sticking out of his chest, flakes of ash still floating around.

“What’d ya think?” She beamed. Brady was still kneeling behind his axe, awestruck. At her voice, he shut his gaping mouth and stood, pulling himself up with his axe.

“Wow, Cynthia.” He met her grey eyes and smiled as she curtseyed, flicking the wide legs of her shorts out in mock of a skirt. His mother would have shrieked. “That was… amazing.”

“I know, right?” She laughed. “I can finally say I got a good one. My dad’s gonna be so proud!” She twirled a strand of white hair and looked around for Henry, as if her speaking of him was going to summon the sorcerer. Brady wouldn’t be surprised.

“And your ma,” Brady drew closer to her, keeping one eye on the battle, which seemed to be thrumming everywhere but where they were.

“You think?” Cynthia’s eyes sparkled as she turned them onto his. They were the same height, but her constant bouncing made it seem like she was taller than he was.

“Of course!” He laughed at her doubt. Sumia never made her endless love for her daughter a secret.

“You too, though!” Cynthia said, and Brady raised his eyebrows. “I couldn’t have done it without you!” He smiled at that, reaching a hand up to scratch at the scar over his eye. He figured a bit of blood was drying on his forehead, making it itchy. “We make a great team.” She hummed, watching him.

“We really do.” His gaze was warm. “I’d say that we should fight together more often, but hopefully we never hafta fight again after today.” He dropped his hand from his forehead, and finally flipped his axe so the blade was touching the ground, and he was holding the staff. He didn’t trust Cynthia not to bound into the sharp edge. It was eerily similar to the way his mother held her parasol as she lectured him when he was a child.

“Then we’ll just have to find something else to do together!” Cynthia said, bouncing in front of him like a yo-yo.

“Like what?” Brady shouldn’t have been too concerned, but then again, Severa had made him buy her gold leaf decorative candles that had never even been lit, so he was a bit hesitant when a girl wanted to hang out. Even Cynthia.

He opened his mouth to tell her that but she was already throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his. This was not the time for a proper kiss, and their adrenaline along with Cynthia’s unstable feet made their teeth clack, and her lips tasted like ash and fire. He was sure his mouth tasted no better. But Brady had never had a better kiss, even though it only lasted for a few seconds, and when they drew apart, all he could do was stare elatedly at Cynthia.

“Stuff like that!” She chirped, not missing a beat, her grin possibly wider than he had ever seen it. “Only if you want to.” She added, turning back to the battle, feeling the sharp gust of an  _ Arcwind _ race by them. “We can talk about it later.”

“Alright.” His voice broke at the  _ r _ but he didn’t care. She reached her hand toward him again, and he took it. He felt his eyes well up but he tried to blink away the tears, sniffing happily. He let her lead him away.

“I spy with my little eye…” Cynthia sang, skipping along, and Brady laughed.

Hopefully he’d have her to make him laugh for the rest of his life.


	6. Chapter 6

“ _ Forgetting someone? _ ” Was the last thing the Grimleal heard before a fist was pummelling into his face. The hit made him stumble and let go from where he had been clinging to Minerva’s side, restricting the wyvern from opening her wings. Another blow to the face, and another, and another, before his assailant's fist was dripping with blood and they finally stopped. The Grimleal was hanging limp in their grip now, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, but when he realised the hits had stopped he opened his eyes.

_ “Rest in pieces _ .” Cherche snarled before dropping him to the floor and sticking her lance through his chest.

“Wow,” Cherche looked up from the body and smiled. “You showing me up?” Stahl asked, glancing around at the battle before leaning forward to quickly steal a kiss. Cherche hummed, but it quickly turned into laughter as Minerva shuffled towards them and chirped, flapping her wings a little to make them notice her.

“Don't worry, I didn't forget,” Stahl reached for the wyvern and quickly kissed the top of her scaly head, and Minerva snuffled in delight. Cherche reached out a hand and Minerva immediately moved away from Stahl to coo into her palm. Stahl chuckled.

“One day I'll be able to keep her attention on me.” He commented, patting Minerva’s scaly neck before using the same hand to rustle around in the satchel that was permanently attached to his hip. Cherche knew that inside were small vials of elixirs, some special candy from Gaius, a letter from Stahl’s parents, his wedding ring (his gauntlets were too restricting for him to wear it when he was fighting), and, of course…

“Jerky?” Stahl offered some to Cherche, who shook her head and saw the relief in his eyes as she did so. Stahl crammed some into his mouth and zipped his satchel back up, rolling his shoulders and looking around. He had his helmet tucked precariously under one arm, having taken it off to talk to his wife. He rarely wore it because he said it flattened his wild hair into his eyes and made them itchy.

After making sure neither Cherche nor Minerva were injured, Stahl took his sword from its scabbard and waved it. “Shall we?” He asked, gesturing back to the battle. Cherche flicked her hair over her shoulder and adjusted her armour, nodding and hefting her lance, twirling it once and making Stahl smile more.

“Have you seen Gerome?” Cherche asked as she mounted Minerva, realising she hadn't glimpsed the other wyvern in a while. She ghosted a hand across her abdomen, remembering the Gerome of this world, probably safe and asleep in his tiny cot that Gregor had made as a gift for them. The last letter they had received was from the wet nurse telling them he had grown quite a bit over the last few weeks, and now his eyes were a lovely shade of green. Cherche ached to see him but she knew that fighting this war was to help the world. Chrom had never forced any of them to stay, especially those with children already, but they all chose to remain and fight. This was for their children, after all.

Little Gerome had been born a month or two into the war with Valm, with Miriel attending and Stahl at Cherche’s side, sobbing and telling her how incredibly healthy and chubby their son was. Having been brought to both Chrom’s wedding and coronation as an official guest of Rosanne by Virion’s side, Cherche had met Stahl and fallen in love with one glance at those kind eyes. They were married within eight months, and Cherche had been officially introduced to the Shepherds while heavily pregnant, and those that her and her husband weren't close to were shocked when she was initiated into the fighting a few months later.

They had received a little bit of judgement at marrying and having a child so soon, but Cherche had found solace in Maribelle, who was newly pregnant when Gerome was born. Maribelle and Ricken were under a fair bit of strain for marrying too young, but, as Maribelle put it, when you knew it was real, especially in wartime, why wait.

“Not recently, but I'm sure he's fine,” Stahl kicked an enemy’s knee in and gave Cherche an opening. Her tomahawk landed with a grotesque sound in the enemy’s skull and caused blood matter to spray everywhere. Stahl caught her eye and made a face. “That was all you,” he said as he handed her the tomahawk back. Cherche laughed at his disgusted face and wondered how he had changed the diapers while they were back in Ylisstol.

“Poor you,” she sniggered, but her amusement died immediately as Minerva shrieked, launching into the air and scrabbling the wind with her claws. Cherche grabbed the sides of her saddle to hold on and tried to find out what happened. Her hair was whipping around her face, but she finally spotted the warrior who was aiming his bow at them. If there was one thing Minerva hated, it was arrows, and this warrior was rapid-firing.

Minerva was ascending higher and higher, screeching and snarling and beating her wings at her assailant. She was fleeing, and Cherche’s heart thudded as she glimpsed Stahl alone on the battlefield, staring up at them with such a look of fear on his face for a moment before facing the oncoming enemy, hastily stuffing his helmet onto his head.

“ _ Vers le bas!” _ Cherche cried urgently to Minerva, patting her scaly neck. She only ever spoke to Minerva in her mother-tongue when they were alone or in a crisis.“ _ Descendre, s'il vous plaît! _ ” She was trying to watch Stahl but Minerva’s erratic movement was making it hard. “ _ S'il vous plaît, Minerva!” _ She was so worried, but Minerva kept flying, anxiously trying to avoid the volley of arrows. She glimpsed Stahl parrying an axe, both hands gripping his sword, but again he was lost as Minerva dipped to the side.

“ _ Vers le bas, Minerva, mon chéri, s’il vous plaît! _ ” Cherche couldn't even aim her tomahawk at their assailant because of her wyvern’s erratic movements. They dived to the left, Minerva flattening her wings to her body, and they left the battlefield completely, circling under the body of the beast. Minerva was never usually this scared, but Cherche knew her wyvern was much more terrified because of Grima and the atmosphere they were fighting in. Cherche didn't blame her a bit, but they needed to get back to the battle. They needed to get back to Stahl, who they had abandoned.

Minerva hovered for a moment under Grima’s belly, growling her discomfort through her chest. “ _ Je sais, ma chérie, je sais.”  _ She stroked Minerva’s shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting way, but it was hasty, and her fingers caught on the scales. “ _ Mais s'il vous plaît, nous devons revenir. _ ”

Minerva grumbled again but began to ascend, snorting hot breath from her nose. “ _ Stahl est en danger!”  _ Cherche was finally losing her patience at the slow speed they were rising. At her words, Minerva chirped, recognising Stahl’s name. “ _ Plus vite, si vous s'il vous plaît!” _

Finally, Minerva gave a huge beat of her wings and they rocketed skywards. Cherche widened her eyes against the wind and stood on her stirrups, getting her axe ready. Though she never doubted his skill, she knew Stahl wasn't the best fighter, especially on foot in his heavy paladin armour. And there had been a lot of Risen closing in on them.

Minerva went straight for the warrior that had been firing at them, and Cherche couldn't blame her. Erupting from the edge, Minerva gave him no warning before clamping her powerful jaws around him, bow and all. Blood sprayed from her mouth and Cherche praised her absently as she stood higher in her stirrups and searched for her husband.

Her mind flashed to their little baby sleeping in his cot back in Ylisstol, and her heart clenched. She couldn't raise him without Stahl. Everytime he looked at her with his father's green eyes would be a reminder, a stab in the chest. She needed to  _ find him _ .

“ _ Stahl _ !” She shrieked desperately, and Minerva turned her great head to stare at her master. Cherche never screamed, never rose her voice. This is pure desperation.

With one great swing of her tail, Minerva ploughed through a crowd of enemies where Stahl had been. Cherche searched desperately with her eyes, wriggling in the saddle enough to make Minerva rumble a complaint. “ _ Pardon _ ,” she murmured softly, before finally,  _ finally _ spotting that green armour under a crowd of Grimleal.

“ _ Le voilà!” _ She cried, pointing. _ “Là, mon amour, allez-y!” _

Minerva screeched as she charged forward, flapping her wings and snapping her jaws. Cherche was grabbing her supply of spears that were attached to the back of her saddle and using them with deadly aim, and soon the Grimleal had either fled or died at the hands of the deadly duo.

“ _ Stahl! _ ” Cherche dismounted her wyvern and skidded to her knees beside him. He was lying face down, armour cracked in several places, but his helmet was still on securely. “ _ Stahl, mon amour, s'il vous plaît être en vie, _ ” Cherche breathed, straining to roll him over. She knew he didn't understand but a few words of her native Rosanne language, but she couldn't help it.

Once he was on his back Cherche yanked his helmet off, brushing his sweaty hair from his closed eyes. “Stahl?” She asked, stroking his face, but there was no response, not even a twitch of an eyelid. “ _ Mon amour _ ?” She whispered, brushing his eyebrow idly with her thumb whilst she stared at his unmoving face with wide eyes.

Minerva pushed her head under Cherche’s arm, chirping curiously. “ _ Pas maintenant _ ,  _ Minerva. _ ” Cherche told her, voice unsteady.

Minerva stretched out her long neck and gently nudged Cherche to the side, rumbling sadly as her huge red eyes gazed down at her master’s beloved. She moaned once as she looked, and she heard Cherche let out a sob next to her. Barking shortly, Minerva sniffed Stahl’s still face and took in the familiar scent of grass and apple pie mixed with the acrid scent of the ghastly dragon they were situated on.

Dead people all had the same smell. Even freshly dead, Minerva could always tell if there was a blip of life in a body. The dead always smelt stale and dusty, cold and forgotten. Minerva hated fighting Risen because sometimes they were weeks old, and she had to smell rotting flesh as well as stale blood sitting in veins that were withered and crumbling. Sweat had usually dried on the bodies, sometimes giving them a sweet/sour smell that made her want to throw the bodies into water somewhere.

Stahl had that sweet/sour smell, easily traceable as Minerva could clearly see the sweat drying on his face, his upper lip shiny and slick, cheeks still red and damp. She wanted Cherche to take Stahl home to their little cottage in the outskirts of Ylisstol and wash him in the stream that ran outside. The sweat smell was so strong, mixed with apple pie, fresh grass, and blood.

But not death.

She turned her great head to look at Cherche, who had her head bowed, one hand over her eyes, the other clutching Stahl’s limp fingers. Minerva nickered, blowing air from her nose over Stahl’s face so his hair fluffed up. Cherche mumbled something that Minerva didn't hear over the flapping of Grima’s great wings.

Once more, Minerva chirped, moving her face close to her master and nudging the hand held over her eyes. Cherche raised her head and looked at Minerva with watering eyes. Minerva blew air into her face before moving her head back to Stahl’s body, making sure Cherche was still watching as she laid her scaly head on Stahl’s breastplate and cooed, trying to tell Cherche what she knew.

Cherche’s eyes widened when Minerva rolled her head so her ear-slits were resting over Stahl’s breastplate, mimicking checking his heart, something she knew Minerva had seen plenty of times.

She crawled over hastily, and Minerva moved back, curling her tail protectively around them and keeping a watchful eye out. Cherche reached out and once more touched Stahl’s face, moving it from side to side gently, before using her thumbs to open his mouth.

She leant over and put her ear about his mouth and waited. She sobbed in relief when she felt the tiny puffs of air moving the thin hair at her temples, and fresh tears fell from her eyes.

“ _ Merci,”  _ Cherche sobbed to Minerva, “ _ Merci _ ,  _ mon chéri, _ ” Minerva clucked back at her, raising the tip of her tail to tickle Cherche’s face gently. Cherche stroked Stahl’s cheek again, less desperately than she had before, before resting her fingers in his flyaway hair and kissing his temple thankfully. The elixirs he had in his satchel couldn't revive him, so next, they had to find a healer who could bring Stahl back to consciousness and get him back to fighting.

Or… Cherche looked at Minerva, at her saddle that could fit two, that had seated both herself and Stahl many times before. And no one would blame them, seeing as how injured Stahl was. Cherche had training as a cleric and could easily take good care of him back at home, and they could be with their sweet, gurgling baby Gerome by morning.

No, they couldn't. They had to fight for their country, for their children, for their world. Cherche knew that they couldn't abandon their friends.

She looked at Stahl, at his pale face and cracked armour and still body, and made a decision. Her green-eyed baby flashed before her eyes and her heart ached. Whistling for Minerva, Cherche heaved Stahl up, hoping she was making the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Google translate for the French so please let me know if there's anything wrong- you can contact me here or my tumblr.


	7. Chapter 7

Life force was like strings, connected to everything. The strings started at a singular point, the person whose life it was, and connected to everything they loved, creating a bond, a link. When someone breaks their bond with another, the string is broken, disappearing into the void. Similarly, when a person dies, their string is cut at the source, and everything unravels.

Tharja loved being the one to cut the ties.

Dark magic pulsed at her fingers as she grabbed an enemy’s neck, plunging her sharp fingernails through the skin and feeling the blood wash over her hands. Energy drew into her, draining in through her fingers as the Grimleal sputtered against the  _ nosferatu _ , and in that moment she received a minuscule glimpse of the archer’s life.

_ Ocean spray, salty on my lips as I watch my homeland disappear in the horizon. Grima. Hot sand of my new life, baking sun, long walks to the temple, bow strings snapping against my arm, stings. Grima. Cracked shutters, a handsome smile, tears in my eyes as he leaves me for the first time, tears in my eyes when he returns. Grima. The sun and the Fell Dragon are the only constants in this life, a dusty shelf, a new, prettier smile before the old one returns once more, the new smile never to be seen again. Grima. No blood for months, my hands on my abdomen, asking the dragon for protection from him for this new life. Grima. The baby has a pretty smile, I want to stay but He needs me, my mother can hide the baby, I named her- _

Tharja tore her hand away and hissed as the archer dropped to the floor, eyes open but sightless in death. She breathed in and smiled at the invigorating sense of strength that was flowing through her veins, an almost lustful sense of euphoria surging through her.

Clutching her bloody hand into a fist, Tharja closed her eyes and traced a life force.

It wasn't uncommon for a Mage to track a life force, but it was difficult to do. Tracing didn't allow her to do much other than just get flashes of what her subjects were feeling, but to do it correctly it required cooperation on both ends. Her subjects had to allow her in the first time with an open heart and mind, and then Tharja could trace them as much as she wanted after. Tharja was glad she was only tracing a few, though, as it was hard to keep track, and she felt the familiar tug on her soul as she followed the connection.

_ Exhaustion. Resignation. Fear. Love. Acceptance.  _ Tharja let out a slip of air from between her lips, and felt a trickle of relief that Robin, although stressed, was not injured. Robin had made her promise not to Trace her at inappropriate times, and Tharja had agreed begrudgingly. She hadn't betrayed her promise though, not yet.

Next, she followed the quivering connection she secretly yearned to be near, protecting.

_ Fear. Anger. Unbridled, boiling rage. Cowardice. Shame. Wrath.  _ Tharja smiled. Noire’s emotions were as unsteady as they ever were, but she wasn't hurt or panicking so Tharja wasn't worried.

That feeling was abruptly cut off as she felt one of her tracks, the last one, course quickly with a shock of fear and pain before burning with fury, followed by satisfaction.

Opening her eyes, Tharja whirled around to see the source, and watch as Vaike behead the swordmaster who just made a vicious cut on his bicep. His arms rippled with strength as he swung the axe cleanly through the skin, blood flowing down his arm in a stream.

“Still in one piece, Vaike?” She drawled as she watched his bare chest heave for breath.

He still managed to snort even though he was panting. “Relax, Tharj.” He grinned and raked a hand through his sweaty hair, mixing blood into the strands. Tharja liked it. “You could toss me off a cliff-”

“Yeah, yeah, and the ground would be lucky to survive,” Tharja rolled her eyes. “I know.”

Vaike beamed at her. “Gods, I love you.” He said, so nonchalantly that Tharja almost bristled as the blood rose to her cheeks.

Instead, she smirked. “I feel the same. But haven't we been over this already?” She shook out her hair and twitched a hand. “Come on. Let's go find a healer.”

Vaike bounded over to her and looped his uninjured arm around her shoulders, quickly pressing a kiss into her hair before she could shake him off. His arm was bloody down to the hand now, but he didn't seem to bothered by it though, not yet.

“Do you  _ want _ to restrict our movement?” She hissed as she stepped out from his hold. She grabbed his hand (the one that was covered in blood) and held it fast. “Stop being an idiot.” She squeezed his hand and began walking again.

“Alright,” he chuckled and kept her dainty hand enclosed in his, her Plegian complexion only a few shades darker than his sun-kissed gold. The blood covering his hand was making her skin tingle. She could feel the ties binding them pulled tight, unbreakable.

She had once asked Noire how Vaike had died, and watched impassively as her daughter tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and tears welled in her wide green eyes. Tharja expected something like Vaike had charged into battle without a plan, or he had died saving a kitten, or, Gods forbid, he had forgotten his axe again. Instead, Noire told her how she and her husband had been assigned recon in Plegia itself, and Vaike had died trying to save his wife and her home village. Tharja had sniffed and told her daughter that was as stupid a reason as she had expected. The village she had grown up in meant nothing to her, nor did her relatives who still lived there. Noire told her she had said the exact same thing when she escaped and returned to her for the last time, but Tharja had been crying. She told her daughter to stop being ridiculous and swept off to find her husband and make sure he knew that the only family she cared about was the one she had with him. 

She hadn't asked how she herself had died. After Noire’s tale, Tharja could predict it what would happen next.

“‘Qu!” Vaike waved his good arm and Tharja uncoupled herself from his bloody hand. Lon’qu looked in their direction and narrowed his eyes at the name, but refrained from saying anything. Same old Lon’qu. Tharja wished that trait had been passed down to his son, who was loud and obnoxious and asked her daughter to make pies and cakes all the time, the excess sugar of which made Noire’s nosebleeds more frequent. Although she hadn't heard Owain’s boisterous voice lately. She assumed he was further towards the front lines.

“What?” Lon’qu finished off his opponent with a graceful swipe of his sword, before using his sleeve of his traditional Chon’sin swordmaster tunic to wipe the blood spray off his face. His efforts only smeared the blood dry from his temple to the side of his mouth. Tharja smiled.

“Where's ya adorable little- ah there she is!” Vaike waved once more as Lissa appeared from  _ somewhere _ , her pigtails bouncing as she clutched a physic tightly in her hands.

“Vaike!” Lissa’s normally bright eyes were scrunched up in a worried expression, but they smoothed out to beam at Vaike. Tharja shifted her weight so she was standing closer to her husband, the smile falling from her lips. She saw Lon’qu smirk at her, and she reminded herself to curse him once the battle was over.

“Here for a healing?” Lissa asked them, and Vaike held his arm out for the blonde to take.

Tharja and Lon’qu stepped up to keep watch while Lissa healed Vaike, and Tharja swapped her  _ Nosferatu _ for her treasured  _ Aversa’s Night _ , which Robin had entrusted her with after defeating the dark sorceress. She held it almost reverently, not willing to even crease a page of the gift Robin had given her. She felt the power within the pages and tasted darkness on her tongue, musty but metallic, like blood.

She adjusted her weight slightly on the uneven surface, and Lon’qu adjusted to her, moving away. She almost giggled. “Still can't handle women,  _ ‘Qu _ ?” She used Vaike’s nickname for his friend to antagonise him further. To his credit, Lon’qu didn't even look in her direction, but he fidgeted with his sword, his long fingers clenching the hilt.

“I am… Better, than I was.” He said, but there was no pride in his voice. “Lissa helps. But…” Now he did look in her direction, and she tried not to take offence as his pale skin lost more colour just by looking at her. “You are more womanly than most, I'm afraid.”

Now she did laugh, raising a hand so her robes rustled, twirling a strand of thick hair around her finger. They seemed to have met a break in the surrounding fight- that, or the swordmaster and the sorceress looked so intimidating that no enemies were approaching them.

“How come you're at the midlines anyway?” Tharja was genuinely curious. Lon’qu was a frontline fighter, and Lissa had her axe, though Robin’s strategy intrigued her. She always wanted to understand their tactician’s beautiful mind.

“Lissa decided to be in charge of physic use, and asked Robin to switch.” Lon’qu grunted. “Owain took our spot in the front.” As if just remembering him now, Lon’qu frowned at the mention of his son before rising on his toes and looking ahead as if he'd be able to see the yellow swordmaster in the thick of battle.

Tharja would have found that ridiculous one year ago. There was no way you could find a lone soldier in a battle, no matter how well you knew them (or what colour their tunic was). But now that she had her own child and kept track of Noire, she understood. And, with some effort, she could trace Owain’s life force through Lon’qu’s bond with his son, if he so wished it to be done.

“Do you want me to-” She began, feeling darkness on her tongue again.

“All done!” Vaike stepped between the two and leant in to kiss Tharja on the cheek. She rolled her eyes for show, but slid her hand up his shoulder, resting it at the nape of his neck whilst Lissa trotted to Lon’qu’s side. “We’ll see ya later!” Vaike waved at the other couple before patting Tharja’s rear and starting to make his way back to their station.

Without saying goodbye, Tharja followed her husband, watching him flex his newly healed bicep.

Tharja knew a lot of people whispered behind their backs, watched them shrewdly, judged them. People didn't understand the dynamic their relationship was based on, how they understood each other, how they kept each other’s company long enough to get  _ married _ . Virion approached her once about it, only about a month after they had married.

“Why him?” He had flicked his farcical hair out of his eyes and regarded her with that ‘noble look’- chin raised and eyes slightly narrowed.  _ Judging _ . 

Tharja’s lip had curled. Cornering her alone in a tent was one thing, but this was preposterous. “Just because you took a blow for me doesn't mean I owe you  _ anything _ , fool.” She had hissed.

“It's not even about that.” Virion’s Rosannian accent bled through, his frustration causing him to lose the careful check he had on his pronunciation. “It's just- you're so  _ regal _ , and  _ posed _ , and he is but an uneducated  _ brute- _ ”

Tharja laughed in his face, causing him to stop mid sentence. “How sad you are, to come in here and say these things.” She waved a hand in his face, and he stepped away in fear. She had walked out without saying anything else, and told only Nowi and Cherche of the incident, late one night weeks later when they were stargazing. Cherche’s belly was swollen with child, but her gaze was as sharp as ever.

“ _ Cet imbécile! _ ” Cherche speaking her first language was much more pleasant to listen to than Virion. She passed her hand over her belly, as if to shield the unborn child from her words. “I am so sorry for messer’s actions, Tharja.” Tharja rolled her eyes. She knew Cherche barely tolerated Virion now, and only did so for the sake of her country.

“Though you and Vaike are an odd couple! Don't get me wrong, I love Vaike, and I love you, but no one saw that you'd love each other.” Nowi commented, and Tharja watched her squirm. She must have been holding onto that comment for a while.

“Indeed.” She drawled, hoping they'd drop the subject as she raised her eyes from Nowi to the sky. She dug her bare feet into the earth and felt the cool grass and dirt encase her toes, the magic thrumming all around her.

“I mean,” Tharja’s mouth quirked downwards into a scowl as Nowi kept babbling. “You two are always fighting! We all thought you hated each other.”

Tharja sighed. “He is very good looking though.” Nowi added, now blatantly looking at Tharja for an answer. Her scowl deepened, but unfortunately Nowi knew Tharja wouldn't curse her too badly if she continued nagging her.

“Nowi…” Cherche began, and Minerva cawed from behind her. “There's more to it than that, and you know it.” The chiding tone made Nowi blow her cheeks out and pout, but Tharja just pursed her lips.

“But I-”

“Why do you love Vaike?” Tharja asked, raising a dark hand to catch a hair that had blown into her thick eyelashes.

Nowi brightened and immediately began spouting words. “He's so strong! And funny and brave and lots of fun and-”

“And kind.” Cherche added, meeting Tharja’s eyes. Nowi’s shut her mouth and beamed.

“But the opposite of you.” Nowi chirped. “In a good way!” She added quickly as Tharja raised an eyebrow haughtily.

“Harmony is good in life.” Tharja began, turning to face the sky again, the starlight making her dark eyes almost luminous. She twisted the ring around her finger with her thumb. “Someone who opposites you makes for a challenge but also for balance. Harmony makes for a certain atmosphere in the home, and it's good for magic.” She shut her eyes, her chest feeling heavy. She didn't know why she had to explain herself. In the moonlight, her dark skin was golden. “Plus, you never choose who you love.”

The Shepherds stopped asking about them after that. Tharja knew the link between herself, Nowi and Cherche grow into a taught rope, and the tie between her and Vaike only grow more unbreakable.

The same moon was shining over Tharja now as she ducked under an enemy’s  _ Thoron _ , waiting to strike as Vaike threw his tomahawk at the Sage. The illumination of the spell turned Vaike’s hair white, like Henry’s and his daughter’s.

She hadn't needed to ask Vaike why his future self had died saving her home. To Vaike, his hometown was sacred, and returning to the streets he had grown up on was the only path his life would take. He had taken her there after they had gotten married, and they'd bought a small house just off the main road. They'd lived a cluttered life, dirty dishes always in the sink, tomes open and around the house where anyone could read them, more often than not an orphan or a runaway sleeping on their threadbare couch. And always, always, Vaike telling her that one day he'd like to see her home and her village in Plegia, that he'd love to see the place that had made her who she was, because their home was what was important to him.

And she told him over and over again that her home was where he was, and nowhere else.

Their home stood dusty and empty now. They hadn't been there for months. She would never admit this, but she was very much looking forward to returning to their house with their daughter.

“ _ Argh _ !” Tharja screamed as a sword pierced the side of her stomach, blood beginning to flow down the inside of her robes as the Grimleal withdrew the weapon from her flesh, ready to strike again.

“ _ Traidor _ !” The Grimleal shouted at her from under their helmet, brown skin stretched tight in a snarl. Tharja stared right into their eyes as she raised her tome, but they leapt away, and her spell flew harmlessly past them.

Stumbling, she felt Vaike’s huge hands pushing her behind him, away from the swordmaster, raising his axe and yelling. There were no words in his roar, but the fury was evident, unrelenting. She knew he couldn’t have understood the Grimleal’s words as they had snarled at her in their native Plegian, but that hardly seemed to matter. Tharja pressed her hands to her belly and bit her lip at the pain, in shock but also relishing at the tingle to her nerves, the blood pooling under her hands.

The wound was bad. This could put her out of the battle of she didn't heal up soon, but she was thankful it was to the side of her stomach, a little under her ribs. Grimleal were appearing out of nowhere, like they were being summoned from thin air, and they were too far away from any healers to get the assistance she needed in enough time. She needed to use her tomes, she needed to take someone else’s health for her own, she needed to be in front, and she needed it  _ soon _ .

“Vaike-” she stumbled to his side, steadying herself on his back and leaving behind a bloody handprint on his sweaty skin.

“Thank me later!” He pushed her behind him again, and she scowled.

“No I need-” The swordmaster attacked again before she could tell him, and Vaike sprinted to meet him halfway. Cursing, Tharja tried to go after him, to get a shot in, but another Grimleal had spotted her and she couldn't run, the wound making her legs weak.

Fear twisted in her soul, but she refused to call to Vaike, lest his attention wavered from his own opponent. “ _ Desetor _ !  _ Tránsfuga _ !” The Grimleal roared at her as he swung his axe down with deadly force. She threw herself to the side to dodge and landed heavily, her tome scattering from her hands as she tried to protect her stomach as she fell.

Tharja hadn't felt panic in a long time.

She tried to rise, but her legs were weak and wouldn't hold her. She made it to her knees, feeling sweat on her brow and hair in her eyes. Her robes were flapping in the wind, and Grima screeched. She could feel  _ everything _ , and she had never known fear like this.

The pain was indescribable as the silver axe cleaved into her shoulder, but even more when the Grimleal pulled it back out. The blade had plunged down through her collarbone and stopping in her pectoral, slicing sinew and tendons apart in its journey. She choked, blood spilling from her mouth as she tried to scream with the pain, but no noise escaped her. She felt her whole body seize, and the ties binding her to everyone she loved drew taught, stretched thin, ready to break.

White noise filled her head as she raised it to look at the Grimleal standing over her. Blood dribbled down her chin, and she reached a hand out in a last effort to maybe absorb some of their health. They just grinned at her from under the leather helmet, and that grin never changed, even as something black blurred across their throat and their head slowly fell off their shoulders, body collapsing to the ground.

The last thing she saw was two golden hands reaching for her, and then a white mist filled her vision. “- _ ere _ !” Noise slowly filtered through her ears, but it was like she was listening through a filter, and she couldn't catch it all. “- _ ere, Th-rja! _ ” Something lifted her hands and she felt them placed palms down onto something blunt and wet. Her head lolled onto her shoulder because she couldn't keep it up any more. “ _ Da-mit- ----ja! Y-- c-- -o it _ !” Her fingers twitched, one hand sliding off the surface it had been put on, the hand attached to the shoulder that had almost been cleaved off of her. She was surprised there were still nerves in her hand to let her feel. Something- another hand- grabbed hers, squeezing it. “ _ Don't you give up! _ ”

_ Vaike _ .

With the last of her energy Tharja  _ pulled _ . She felt it, the draining sensation through her fingertips where they were resting on whatever Vaike had placed them on. He was still squeezing her other hand, and after a long moment, she tried to squeeze back. She sputtered in pain as she felt the tendrils of whatever she was taking the life force from start to knit her shoulder back together, and Vaike let go of her hand to wipe the blood off her mouth, his thumb catching on the corner of her lips. 

After what felt like years, Tharja opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was Vaike. She sighed his name, practically a whisper, as her hands slid off the decapitated body of the Grimleal that had injured her. Vaike must have dragged the body over to her when he saw her collapse. No wonder she couldn't get much health from him, seeing as he was already dead.

Vaike didn't say anything when he met her open eyes, just hugged her close, tangling his fingers in her thick hair. But they didn't have time for a reunion, she didn't even know how they had had time for her to pull all the energy she could out of that body.

“Vaike,” she gasped again, close to his ears. She was in no way healed, the flesh of her wound pink and puffy, painful even when she wasn't moving. And by now, it was going to scar, no matter how much she healed it. But that didn't matter. She needed more health to even move if she wanted to go more than a few steps at a time. “How did you-”

“I felt it.” He told her. “I dunno how, but I felt it.” She panted against his neck, making the sticky skin even more damp as she tried to get her breath back. Was that possible? Could her feelings have affected him through their Trace, even though it was her link and he was not a mage? She had never heard of anything like that before, but, perhaps, if the bond was strong enough.

A  _ Thoron _ crackled overhead, shooting over them like a parody of a shooting star, reminding Tharja of their situation. Her hands, one of which was cupping the back of Vaike’s neck as she held him close, the other still tingling with nerves and resting on her thigh, fidgeted. “The battle-”

“I know,” he whispered it into the crook of her neck, hugging her closer. He had almost buried his head into her hair, and she felt his hands trembling where they held her. “They're coming.”

“I need my tome.” She told him, pushing him away carefully so she could search for it. Her eyes felt droopy, her head heavy as she looked around. She saw the blood running down Vaike’s face, several cuts and gashes on his body. She was sure she still looked worse.

If only they could retreat.

Fury burned inside her, washing out the fear as she finally found her tome, blood spattered across the purple cloth cover. Vaike was where she left him, sitting on his knees, eyes slightly out of focus as he watched her shuffle around.

“The next one to come near us will be doomed.” Tharja spat, using Vaike’s powerful shoulder to heave herself to her feet. Her legs trembled with weakness, but she stood nonetheless, offering her hands to Vaike. Both of her hands were covered in blood, one from her cleaved shoulder and the blood running down her arm from the wound, and the other where she had plunged her fingers through the neck of the enemy archer. That seemed like eons ago, now.

The body of the swordmaster Vaike had been battling was lying a few feet away, staring sightlessly at the sky as blood trickled from where his head rested on the ground. The other Grimleal had been distracted by Minerva- Tharja didn't know which one- swooping through the sky, screeching madly. Luckily this had given Tharja and Vaike time to stand and ready themselves to fight again.

“You shouldn't-” Vaike tried to push Tharja behind him again, but his hand was trembling. 

“Neither should you!” Tharja snarled, swiping at his hand with her own. He sighed, but didn't persist, which confirmed what she already knew. Tharja saw a Grimleal spot them, raising their weapon and gesturing, getting the attention of more enemies.

Tharja felt such a wave of tiredness as she watched the Grimleal advance. She knew they had nowhere to run to, even if they had the energy to retreat. The only thing that could save them now was for her to take the enemy’s energy for herself. Or if Lissa actually puts that Physic to good use. Any time now.

Back to back they fought. The Grimleal were thinning again, and Tharja figured that if they defeated the four that were attacking them now, they would be able to find a healer. They just had make it. Vaike was roaring beside her, each swing of his axe filled with determination, and she didn’t doubt that he saw the thinning crowd too. She wouldn’t allow herself to get her hopes up, though.

Vaike knocked the first of the four down, dodging a sword aimed at his chest while he brought his axe down with a sickening thud. The noise distracted the knight Tharja was fighting, and she clouded his face with dark magic, stumbling in close to get her fingers on bare flesh. He tumbled, unconscious, and she went to grab his arm where there was a gap in his armour, fingers barely brushing the dark skin.

She only got a few flashbacks of the heat of the Plegian sun and the feel of sand on her feet before she had to move as the swordmaster had turned his attention from Vaike and she had to leap backwards, or else she would have ended up dead. And that was something she could not do.

Her thighs trembled and she wobbled when she landed, which is why her spell flew harmlessly by. She couldn’t have absorbed more than the tiniest trickle of health from the knight, and she felt no difference. She doubted he was even dead, merely made unconscious by the spell. She checked quickly, and behind her, Vaike was on one knee, rolling harmlessly away from his assailant, but Tharja had no time to focus on him.

“ _ Tú _ -” She was not as fast as the swordsman, so she was lucky that they paused, eyes widening behind their helmet. Their eyes flickered over her body, eyebrows shooting up into their light hair and nose scrunching with distaste. “ _ Eres tú. _ ” They hissed, recognition colouring the word this time. “ _ El traidor _ .”

Tharja bared her teeth. “ _ Si, soy yo, _ ” She hissed. She heard Vaike grunt in pain from behind her, and she felt her legs trembling with effort. The wound on her stomach still hurt, and she wanted to hold her belly, make sure no further harm came to it. Instead, she gripped her tome and readied herself.

She ducked under the first swipe, twisting as her knees bent, and the enemy cursed, ducking away as she swiped for him. She snarled in Plegian as she flung her hand out to catch herself on the ground, aiming a kick to see if she could swipe the legs out from under them. They stumbled as they tried to dodge, and she aimed her hand to cast a spell, but just as she was about to, a crackle of pain zinged through her mind and she gasped. It wasn't her injury, and she couldn't pinpoint who it was because she had no time, but she began to worry.

“ _ Te mataré _ !” The Plegian roared before tackling her. They must have dropped their sword somewhere, but that didn't stop them. Tharja kicked, trying to squeeze a leg between them as they grappled. Her robes ripped somewhere, and she was sure her stomach began to bleed again, and she was left gasping for air after they slammed a closed fist down over her solar plexus. But she gave as good as she got, scratching a line down their face and digging the heels of her shoes into their calf. She rolled them- if she could roll Vaike under her in bed, she can roll on top of anyone in battle- and now she had the advantage. She cracked her elbow down onto their chest and slammed the heel of her hand into their nose, shoving the cartilage right up until they stilled, hands flopping uselessly to the ground. She panted, trying to get her breath back once more, cradling her stomach.

She wasn't going to try and get health from the body she was straddling. She hated drawing health from dead bodies, it always left a taste of rotting meat and sour milk at the back of her throat, and the effort almost wasn't worth the reward.

But she wasn't unhappy. They could go and find a healer once they dispatched the last Plegian attacking them. She just had to get up and help Vaike, and then quickly check who had gotten wounded through their Bond. They were almost out. They were almost in the clear.

She gasped as pain zinged again through her connection, this time followed by sharp panic- her own and also through the Bond.

“ _ ¡tú allí!”  _ Her head snapped up and she whirled around, hissing in pain at the sharp movement. All the contentment and hope she had been feeling disappeared in a heartbeat as she took in what she was seeing. She raised her hands unconsciously and held her stomach.

“ _ Tú eres el próximo _ .” the Plegian swordmaster hissed. “ _ Alabado sea el Señor.” _

They were standing behind a kneeling Vaike, holding him up by his hair, a sword sticking out of his shoulder, arms hanging dead by his sides. Blood and cuts covered his body, and his axe was by one of his hands, almost teasingly close to his fingers.

Vaike was gritting his teeth, and Tharja could see the tendons in his neck flexing as he tried to move. She didn't know if he could even move his arms- but then, if he could, wouldn't he have escaped the enemy’s hold by now?- and the Plegian brought out a dagger and held it to Vaike’s throat.

Their eyes met, dark and stormy blue locking on to vibrant green. With the amount of times a knife had been held to Vaike’s throat, one wouldn't have thought Tharja could feel this worried, but her heartbeat was almost all she could hear, and all she could see was gold and green. Vaike’s eyes wandered over her, looking at her torn robes and messy hair, her scraped knees that were settled on the scales of a god, and her hands folded over her abdomen. It seemed like an age before they finally returned to meet her gaze, eyebrows creased in an expression she had never seen, and the taste of blood was all Tharja could comprehend.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Tharja raised her right hand, the left moving to clutch the pages of  _ Aversa’s Night _ so tightly they started to rip. Power wavered at her fingertips and she tried to aim. At the same time, the Plegian began to draw his knife across Vaike’s throat, blood beginning to flow like a river. Vaike twisted, roaring as he grabbed his axe-  _ he grabbed it!- _ twisting into the knife’s path to turn and slice his axe through the Plegian, almost slicing them directly in two. His roar turned into a gargle as Vaike collapsed, choking on his own blood through his sliced windpipe.

Tharja screamed.

Never in her life did she remember feeling like that- all things and everything being torn from her grasp. She didn't know how but she was by his side in a moment, rolling him onto his back, watching his body twitch and jerk as it tried to bring in air and expel the liquid from its lungs. For all his strength, all his muscles, all his promises, nothing could stop this. He had never looked so vulnerable.

His eyes were screwed up tightly as blood splattered from his mouth, but somehow he knew who she was. Blood from her own wounds was covering her hands as he grasped them, and for a fraction of a second she wondered how they had gotten here, to this moment. What had lead them to this place, what cruel fate had pushed this destiny onto their shoulders. And then he was using the last of his strength to raise her hands to his throat, to the irreparable gap in his neck, and Tharja knew what he wanted to do with the last scraps of life.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she cupped his neck, sobs racking her chest as she felt his hands squeeze hers, pleading, and she shut her eyes as tight as she could to try and escape the pain in her heart. But, even with her eyes closed and magic pulsing at her palms, all she could see was Vaike.

_ I was eight and the streets were wide and dirty, cobblestones caked with mud and animal shit and yet we lived here, me and the others. I had to get us out, make people care. I will. _

_ I was fifteen when I pilfered from the wrong bag, and a man grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise, dragged me to the castle where I emerged with a purpose, and a friend. _

_ Had a place to live now, plenty of new friends, but never forgetting my home and the people I promised to return to. It would take a while, but I could do it, I would return. Miriel calls me  _ oaf _ and  _ imbecile _ but I know who I am and where I came from, she says I have no focus but I am going to achieve my goal. I will. _

_ Hot sand and sun burning my skin and She was infuriating. How could Robin and Chrom bring a  _ Plegian _ into our camp? She even looks evil, and calls me names and I hate it I hate it I hate it. I see her stalking Robin everywhere she goes. I have to stop her and protect my friends. _

_ She was breathtaking. I was glad she was here. She calls me buffoon and moron but I can laugh it off. She returns for banter almost every day, and soon she is smiling and twirling a ring around her finger. _

_ Noire was as beautiful as her mother. She has my hair, and her skin was the same rich brown as Tharja’s. I never imagined having kids. She has my eyes too, and I wonder if it was my mother or father who had green eyes. I suppose it doesn't matter. _

_ I can't wait to raise her. _

Tharja almost took her hands away then, but the body was still and unmoving underneath her and she couldn't do it. They were still connected, his heart still beat, and she couldn't lose him. How was she going to live without him?

_ Robin tells us it's going to end soon. The war is almost over. Tharja and I celebrate particularly raucously that night. I can't wait to return home. Maybe we can start trying for kids when we get home. I think Noire will like growing up in our house. Tharja likes it more than I ever expected, and I wonder where she grew up. I'll see it one day, I suppose. I love them so much. _

_ The air stinks here, above the world. This might be the last time I see Lissa and Lon’qu. Lissa is healing my arm and talking to me but I can't stop watching Tharja. She looks so strong but I hope she doesn't fight too hard. I don't think she’s aware that I know, I think she forgets how much I notice. _

Tharja opened her eyes and gazed at Vaike in surprise. He was motionless, the blood flowing sluggishly, head lolled to the side with his eyes opened, sightless. His heartbeat was weak, but still there. It had always been his strongest muscle.

_ I don't know how but I felt it. Tharja was in trouble and I felt  _ something  _ in my head and I saved her. I can't let her die, not now. _

_ It burns, the sword in my chest. Tears are in my eyes but I'm not gonna cry. Tharja killed her man, but mine- I'm being forced to my knees. He's calling out to her, and my arms, I can hardly feel anything but  _ maybe _. My fingers twitch. She's watching us, and I can't, I  _ can't- _ her hands are protecting her, but I don't know how much strength Tharja has left. Can she protect her? _

_ I know what I have to do. For them both. _

Tharja screamed into the sky as her wounds knitted closed and Vaike’s consciousness faded. Her cries were lost to the wind and tear tracks marred her cheeks as she asked him not to go, not to leave them. She felt stronger, her stomach no longer hurting, her shoulder completely healed except for a thin scar. She leant and pressed her forehead into his chest, feeling empty as the Bond they shared shattered and she was left cold. The sweat on Vaike’s chest was still warm, as was his skin, but there was no life left in him. It was an empty vessel. There was nothing for her here.

The sounds of approaching feet made Tharja stand, but it was further away than she thought and she was in no immediate danger. Her thighs didn't wobble, her chest only felt heavy and hurt from her sobs that had died out a long time ago. She was healed, and Vaike was dead.

She knew she couldn't do anything with the body. Where would she take it? How? She had to leave it. Leave him. But he wasn't here anymore, so it didn't matter anyway. She had to find other people, Cherche, maybe, or Nowi.

Tharja turned on her heels and walked away. She felt so alone and yet she knew that wasn't the case. She'd never be alone again.

With Vaike’s essence thrumming through her veins and the fragile life fluttering in her abdomen, Tharja returned to the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By far the longest chapter, but I just got lost in these two.  
> I used Google Translate for the Spanish- originally I was going to use Arabic for the Plegians but I decided on a language with a Western-based alphabet to make it easier on myself. If there are any corrections or concerns please contact me here or on my tumblr :)


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